The Price of a Soul; Things I Will Do for Money

$1

• draw a doodle of your face
• come up with five sweet band names
• hug or high-five you
• write a haiku
• Google something for you

$5

• dance for two songs
• perform every magic trick I know
• intentionally lose at a game to you
• take out the trash
• watch a movie with you

$10

• twirl around until I get bored or throw up
• give you a massage for fifteen minutes
• yell loudly in public about your sexual stamina
• read aloud for at least a half hour

$25

• mow your lawn real good
• learn how and then bake you a cake
• do your simple tax return

$50

• follow you around for a day giving you compliments
• be really thankful
• rearrange the furniture and clean one room

$100

• detail your car*
• write a 2,000 word essay on any subject

$1,000

• just about anything

*note: I keep all change found in the process

How Is Your Criminality in This City?; The Universe Loves Me

This is a story all about how my life continues to be awesome and why—as a rule—I am convinced of my own invincibility.

===

During the summer the key to my chain bike lock broke off inside the mechanism, rendering the lock unusable. However, it still ran through the frame of my bike so out of laziness I continued to use it (by wrapping it around the handlebars in order to appear locked) instead of going through the hassle of removing it and getting a new, less crappy security device. This method worked all well and good until one fateful day.

It was early in the morning. I was waking up for class and Adam was getting ready for work. He poked into my room and asked, "Did you park your bike somewhere else last night?"

Nonplussed, I shook my head.

He sort of sighed, and then said, "Well, it's not there."

Silently hoping he was playing a joke, I sauntered downstairs to the front steps to see for myself. Sure enough, the bike was gone.

Disheartened, but taking it as only I could, I shrugged and then continued on my morning routine. I walked to school that day and continued to do so as necessary.

At one point I got a free bike from Emily's brother and attempted to repair it, but after taking various bits apart and pricing out some components from the local bike shop, I sort of gave up. I rode it 'as is' for a day or two before both tires blew out on my way home, nearly sending me careening into traffic.

At this point, I imagine you're wondering, how does this story illustrate how Luke's life is so great? Well, we're almost there; bear with me.

About six weeks after the incident, I was jogging back home after deriving a bunch of sweet calculus equations on a beautiful summer day and I decided to vary my usual route and run up 15th near Loring Pasta Bar. Suddenly, I saw something familiar out of the corner of my eye. I slowed my gait and turned around, staring at the bike parked and locked in front of me.

Although it was black (not rainbow), the pedals were different (i.e. not broken), the chain looked new, and there was a plastic fender installed, I was sure it was mine. It had the same leopard-spotted seat. Same broken tightener thing by the rear wheel. Same tapeless, scratched up handlebars. In fact, it still had the new tires I had bought only days before it was stolen.

I went inside the Pasta Bar and asked the host if he knew whose bike was outside. He stared at me uncomprehendingly and said, "Bike...? What bike?" I said, "Yeah. The bike. Outside. Do you know who owns it?" He continued to gawk, so I led him outside and pointed at it, proclaiming, "That's my bike." He mumbled something about not knowing anything about it, and went back inside.

At a loss, I called the cops: they said they'd send a car over. I dared to walk across the street to Adam's place of employment (Potbelly's) and wave him outside. He chuckled at my exuberance and scoffed, "Of course."

The police officer arrived shortly thereafter and I explained the situation to him. He asked me if I had filed a police report (no), how I knew it was mine, etc. He pointed out that, essentially, he couldn't do much until the next day (when their mobile unit was available to cut the lock). I wasn't particularly keen about waiting around all day, but, I figured it was a small price to pay. He then suggested (and I can't believe I didn't think of this earlier) to buy a lock of my own and double lock the bike so that even if the thief unlocked their lock, mine would still be there.

Happy happy! I skipped down the sidewalk to the local bike shop to buy a lock. I rambled on about my adventure and they casually mentioned that they had a lock cutter I might be able to use. Joy joy! Less than ten minutes later, I was biking my old new bike home free!

To top the whole thing off, whoever stole it put some work into it; tuning up the brake (yes, just one), swapping out some rusted components, and basically making it ride the best it has ever ridden. Excellent, am I right?

note: due to the fact that there was another flat black painted bike locked in the same place the next day and that the whole interaction with the host of the Pasta Bar was profoundly awkward, I believe he may have been the thief.

===

So that's my story folks. I told you it'd all end up for the best!

It's Late; I'm Bored

25

PSTL 1368, Literatures of the World: International Perspectives

18 May, 2005

Back in the day, years before it would implode under the weight of its meth-head owner's extensive abuse of the company bank accounts, Shinders was in the habit of sponsoring and hosting events that at least marginally involved a certain segment of the population who tended to patronize one of its thirteen locations in search of precious goods.

No, not dirty old men looking for porn!

Geeks, of course! Looking for comic books. Or role-playing games. Or card games. Etc.

One of these events involved the midnight release of a movie that would finally, after just shy of thirty years, bring to a close the story of one Anakin Skywalker; illucidating his transformation from a terrible child-actor/mechanical genius to a black-clad, heavy-breathing right hand of the emperor (and eventual savior of the Republic).

This movie was called Episode III: Revenge of the Sith.

As one of the members of the mostly unofficial 'event-team', I was offered the opportunity to don the guise of Anakin's alter ego: Darth Vader. Given my well-established propensity to wear garish outfits in a ploy for attention, the fact that I accepted this chance should not be surprising. A costume rental of this magnitude set Shinders back no less than $120 for one 24-hour period, and I was positively thrilled to serve as the face of the Dark Side for this particular venture (Jake, another member of the oh-so-exclusive 'event team' was chosen to be Chewbacca, the [debatable] emissary of the Light Side).

On the eve of the night in question, I painstakingly fastened and configured the many layers and pieces to my costume, giddy to be getting paid to do something I would have gladly done for free!

Over the course of the evening I helped judge the costume contest, played DDR against my hairy companion to the cheers and laughter of the many people attending the festivities, and basically relished in my role as silent (the voice modulator part of the outfit was cumbersome and prone to malfunction, so I discarded it early on) photo companion.

On one such occasion, a gaggle of virile young ladies approached me and demanded I pose with them. All too eager to comply, I did my duty and suffered their many hands wrapped around my cape and belt. For the sake of the photo.

After an acceptable portrait configuration had been captured, their excited chatter turned to another topic: just who was that mysterious stranger under the mask?

I blushed (though they didn't see this) and insisted that my visage must remain hidden to preserve the overall mood, the reality of the fantasy.

They giggled. And then put their feminine wiles into overdrive, urging me to allow them just a peek under the hood.

I was helpless to resist.

With great trepidation, I slowly removed the hard plastic helmet and face mask. My hair was matted down with sweat. My admittedly oily face lit up with a smile.

They frowned.

"Oh," one of them huffed.

Without another word they turned toward each other in a huddle, cutting me off from the circle of conversation and making it crystal clear that I was no longer welcome among them.

I hung my head, and then walked away solemnly.

I made sure to keep my mask on the rest of the night, disregarding the countless requests for its removal.

Later, I fell asleep in the movie.

Content!

There is a certain class of edible substances that, when subjected to intense heat, tend to retain their temperatures for deceptively long periods of time while then drastically cooling down in the blink of an eye. This phenomenon causes those who brave the tumultuous realms of preparing these foodstuffs to—in the case of the former—burn the roof of their mouth and possibly look ridiculous spitting bits of near boiling, half-chewed mush all over themselves, and/or—as in the latter situation—be forced to eat a luke-warm sludge whose taste somehow is only a shadow of its potential (if it were to be consumed in that precarious threshold between too hot and too cold), or, far more masochistically, heat it up and begin the cycle once more.

Some items that fall into this category:
- oatmeal
- hot chocolate
- cheap frozen pizza (more specifically, cheap frozen pizza sauce)
- Hot Pockets
- lasagna

Strangely enough, most of these things are essential to my diet, leading me to believe that I'm either a) an impatient idiot who can't determine when food is safe to eat, or b) into self-inflicted pain.

I guess maybe it's both.

:)

^_^